What miserable existence is it,
to drift from host to host,
unable to survive alone?
What decrepit creature is it,
passed around like a disease,
and worn out by its travels?
What pathetic personality is it,
passively living in small rooms,
biding its time without a goal?
What lone soul is it,
unable to connect with others,
protected by a wrapping of hate?
What can it become,
with years in a tumbling chrysalis,
praying for metamorphosis?
What end will it meet,
endlessly fleeing,
being a parasite?
19 July 2019
